m 

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TO-MORROW'S    ROAD 


0-MORROW'S    ROAD 
AND    LATER   POEMS 

BY  GERTRUDE  M.  HORT 


PORTLAND  MAINE 

THOMAS  BIRD  MOSHER 

MDCCCCXVI 


COPYRIGHT 

THOMAS    BIRD    MOSHER 
1916 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

FOREWORD  :  TAKING  THE  ROAD  .      3 

TO-MORROW'S  ROAD  : 
A  MAN'S  BARGAIN       ...      5 
OUT  OF  BOUNDS     ....      7 
THE  PANTHEIST    .        .        .        .11 
HOPE  WITH  TWO  FACES     .       .    12 

ULTIMATUM 14 

THE  VAGRANT      ....    16 
THE  PARADOX       .        .        .        .18 

/THE  SONG  OF  A  FOOL  ...  19 
THANKSGIVING  .  .  .  .21 
AT  A  ROMAN  SPRING  ...  23 

A   LITANY 25 

THE  HOUSE  OF  PEACE  ...    27 
THE  LAST  TEST    .       .       .       .31 

LATER  POEMS: 

A  DREAMER'S  EPITAPH       .       .  37 

THE  EVE  OF  SAINT  GUILLOTINE  39 

THE  GHOST'S  PATH  42 


3 G 2474 


CONTENTS 


THE  LIEGEMAN  .  .  .  .45 
THE  LATE-COMER  ...  46 

THE  TOUCHSTONE  .          .          .47 

THE  GRANDSON       .          .          .          .49 

THE  PRICE 51 

THE  SEER 53 

THE  TRIUMPH  .  .  .  .55 
EARTH'S  WEIRD  .  .  .  .57 
THE  UNDYING  CHANCE  .  .  59 

REALITY 62 

COUNSEL 64 

THE  EQUINOXES  .  .  .  .66 
OMNIPOTENCE  67 


vi 


TO-MORROW'S    ROAD 


FOREWORD 
TAKING  THE  ROAD 


t)  EYOND  the  inn  of  Even- Chime, 

Where  men  unpack  the  day-long  load, 
A  shadowy  track  begins  to  climb 
And  opens  on  To-morrow's  Road. 

II 

77?*  road  that  must  be  travelled  still 
To  meet  To-morrow's  sun  aright  — 
'Tis  up  the  hill,  and  up  the  hill, 
And  round  the  hill  .   .  .  and  out  of  sight. 

Ill 

Nine  nights  in  ten  the  journey  's  blest, 
For  dream  tells  dream  the  shortest  way, 
And  while  we  climb  we  think  we  rest, 
And  while  we  move  we  seem  to  stay. 


IV 


And,  without  thought,  we  can  fulfil 

The  plan  and  purpose  of  the  night, 

Go  up  the  hill,  and  up  the  hill, 

And  round  the  hill  .   .   .   and  out  of  sight. 


But  sometimes  there  is  mist  and  din, 
And  blind  revolt  of  heart  and  mind. — 
The  lighted  windows  of  the  inn 
Fade  from  us,  and  we  meet  the  wind 

VI 

That  holds  us  on  the  lower  slopes 
To  grope  and  blunder  uselessly, 
And  talk  again  with  fears  and  hopes, 
And  lag  and  drag  with  memory  ! 

VII 

'T  is  then  some  summon  to  their  aid, 
Like  cordial  cup  or  opiate  flowers, 
The  songs  they  with  their  comrades  made 
For  comradeless  and  songless  hours. 


A  MAN'S  BARGAIN 


I 

¥F  I  cry  out  for  fellowship, 

A  comrade's  voice,  a  comrade's  grip, 
A  hand  to  hold  me,  when  I  slip, 
An  ear  to  heed  my  groan, 
Renew  that  hour's  dark  ecstasy, 
When  all  Thy  waves  went  over  me, 
And  Thou  and  I,  with  none  to  see, 
Were  joined  in  fight  alone  ! 

II 

If  I  demand  a  sheltered  space 
Set  for  me  in  the  battle-place, 
Where  I  at  times  could  turn  my  face, 

A  screened  and  welcomed  guest. 
Decree  my  soul  should  henceforth  cease 
From  its  wild  hankering  after  peace, 
And  rest  in  that  which  gives  release 

From  the  desire  of  rest. 


Ill 

If  I  for  final  goal  should  ask, — 
Some  meaning  for  the  long  day's  task, 
Some  ripened  field  that  yet  may  bask, 

Secure  from  hurricane. 
Point  to  Thy  locust-eaten  sheaves, — 
The  burnt-out  stars,  the  still-born  leaves  ! 
And  by  the  Toil  no  hope  retrieves 

Nerve  me  to  toil  again. 


IV 


So  to  Thy  hard  propitious  skies 
Shall  praise  go  up  like  sacrifice, 
And  all  the  will  within  me,  rise, 

Applauding  at  Thy  word ; 
Thou,  in  the  Glory  jasper- walled 
By  no  reproach  of  mine  be  galled ; 
And  I,  among  my  kind,  be  called 

The  man  whose  prayers  are  heard  ! 


OUT  OF  BOUNDS 


"Etenim  illuc  ..." 

I 

f  AM  here,  in  the  house  He  made,  where  He 

brought  me,  a  blinded  thing, 
By  a  path,  like  a  wire  of  light  threaded  into  the 

Dark's  great  ring. 
And  I  think  that  He  led  me  well,  though  the 

things  I  remember  best 

Are  the  weight  of  the  guiding  hand  the  bruise 
from  the  sheltering  breast. 

II 

So  we  came  to  the  house  He  made,  where  He 

left  me,  without  farewell, 
And  whither  He  went,  and  why,  there  is  nobody 

here  to  tell, 


Save  the  Shadow  down  at  the  gate,  with  its 

face  to  the  hidden  way, — 
And  the  price  of  the  Shadow's  speech  is  —  a 

price  that  I  can't  yet  pay, 

III 

For  I  've  work  in  the  house  He  made,  He  has 

given  me  skill  and  sight 
To  perceive  that  He  made  it  well,  but  not  wholly 

as  well  as  He  might ! 
'T  is  His  will  I  should  change  His  will,  that  I 

open  the  doors  He  barred, 
That  I  mar  what  His  hand  has  made,  and  make 

what  His  hand  has  marred. 

IV 

I  am  lord  where  my  sires  were  serfs  ;  I  can  see 

where  He  left  them  blind  !  — 
'T  is  His  will  I  should  change  His  will,  and 

fashion  His  house  to  my  mind  ! 
But  the  Shadow  still  cleaves  to  the  gate  —  a 

dumb  dark  slave,  with  a  sword  !  — 
And  so  for  its  purpose  there,  I  suppose  He  has 

passed  His  word. 

8 


Like  the  rest,  I  must  tire  of  the  work !     Like 

the  rest,  I  must  turn  from  the  light ! 
It  is  mile  after  mile  of  day,  and  after  the  last 

mile,  night ! 
He  will  give  me  the  rest  I  crave,  He  will  see 

that  none  vex  my  bed 
While  He  crumbles  the  house  that  He  made, 

like  rose-leaves  over  my  head  ! 

VI 

That 's  the  message  I  hear  in  the  dawns  !  and 

I  rise  to  my  work,  content, 
And  I  pass  where  the  Shadow  sits,  still  hiding 

the  way  He  went. 
And  I  plough  where  I  shall  not  sow,  and  I 

sow  where  I  shall  not  reap, 
For  if  that  is  His  will  for  me,  it  is  well  to  be 

earning  sleep  ! 

VII 

But  at  nights  there  's  no  voice  at  all.  ...  I 
have  worked  to  the  light's  last  gleam, 

And  I  sleep  like  a  tired  beast  —  But  't  is  never 
of  sleep  that  I  dream, 


In  dreams  I  am  up  and  away,  I  am  threading 

the  path  once  more, 
And  the  Shadow  's  as  far  behind  as  He  may  be 

far  before  ! 

VIII 

I  have  thwarted  the  slave  at  the  gate  !     I  have 

slipped  from  the  house  He  made. 
'T  was  His  will  I  should  fight  His  will,  and 

I  'm  fighting  it  now  —  by  His  aid.  .  .  . 
Yes !     It 's  mile  after  mile  of  night,  and  after 

the  last  mile,  day 
On  the  dawn-thing  here  in  the  breast,  that  the 

Slayer  himself  can't  slay  ! 


10 


THE  PANTHEIST 


13  RUNO  the  Scholar  in  his  latter  years 

Turned  to  the  Church,  who  bade  him  leave  his  lore, 
Burn  his  dark  books,  and  on  her  lowest  floor 
Kneel,  in  the  dry-eyed  sorrow,  worse  than  tears. 
There,  as  the  faithful  pass  to  pray,  he  hears 
Curses,  that  bless  ..."  Now,  enter,  and  adore  ! 
God  to  His  humblest  room  of  grace  restore, 
And  show  thee,  where  alone  His  Light  appears  ! " 
But  some  who  in  the  Scholar's  cell  had  bent 
And  tracked  with  him  the  Godhead  everywhere, 
Sighed  for  the  fears  that  made  him  penitent.  .  .  . 
"  Wilt  thou  greet  God  as  though  the  altar-stair 
Were  His  one  home  ? "     He  answered  :  "  Be  content ! 
Strange  if  these  eyes  should  miss  Him  only  there  ! " 


ii 


HOPE  WITH  TWO  FACES 


I 

'  ^1^  IS  good  to  look  where  higher  worlds  are  gleaming 

—  Light  after  light,  across  the  Eternal  Seas, — 
And  say  how  far  beyond  our  strife  and  scheming 
They  move  —  like  hearts  at  ease! 
Nor  ill  to  think  how,  where  those  starry  spaces 
Can  catch  no  echo  from  our  darkling  fight 
The  watchers  at  their  lone  or  leaguered  places 
Must  bless  our  beacon-light! 

II 

'T  is  good  to  say,  with  those  whose  faith  is  certain, 

That  golden  years  already  touch  the  gate, 

That  we  but  need  to  pass  To-morrow's  curtain, 

To  find  the  crooked  straight ; 

Nor  ill  that  those  blind  Powers  that  war  with  Meekness 

For  one  more  day  compel  our  souls  to  steer 

By  the  great  strength  that  comes  from  mortal  weakness, 

By  courage  born  of  fear ! 

12 


Ill 

'T  is  well  to  hold  through  sneer  and  contradiction 
That  Good  Supreme  must  make  for  goodness  still, 
That  all  the  evil  here  is  human  fiction 
Or  erring  human  will. 
Well  too,  so  long  as  human  art  discloses 
Its  jealous  care  for  all  man's  hand  has  made, 
That  it  should  be  with  griefs  as  't  is  with  roses  .  .  . 
If  they  are  real,  they  fade! 

IV 

'T  is  well  with  men,  when  higher  hopes  must  kindle, 
For  riper  years  that  still  have  proved  the  best, 
When  they  have  seen  youth's  irksome  follies  dwindle. 
And  know  that  work  is  rest ! 

Aye  !     Even  well  though  wisdom  Time  has  given, 
With  Time  himself  were  doomed  to  slide  away, 
And  Youth,  renewed  on  some  wide  field  of  Heaven, 
Should  call  to  endless  play. 


ULTIMATUM 


I 


I/1  RE  Time  its  final  will  on  me  has  sated, 

And  with  the  Over-Soul  this  soul  is  mated, 
I  would  be  one  with  all  that  I  have  hated  ! 
So,  for  my  last  fight,  would  there  come  to  arm  me,— 
The  sins  I  blamed  —  because  they  did  not  charm  me, — 
The  fears  I  mocked  —  because  they  could  not  harm  me 


II 

The  witless  dreams  I  would  not  let  pursue  me, 
The  idle  hopes  too  idle  to  subdue  me, 
The  feeble  thoughts  that  passed  and  never  knew  me ; 
The  sordid  things  that  found  no  way  to  reach  me, 
The  coward  things  that  had  no  power  to  teach  me, 
The  brainless  things  that  could  not  even  beseech  me  — 

14 


Ill 

While  days  and  nights  still  keep  the  door  of  Heaven, 

And  months  and  years  still  veil  the  Orbits  seven, 

Into  those  weakling  hands  I  would  be  given  ! 

So,  when  Time's  final  will  on  me  is  sated, 

And,  with  the  rest,  I  suffer  what  is  fated, 

I  shall  be  strong  —  with  strength  I  scorned  and  hated  ! 


THE  VAGRANT 


I 

TF  my  heart  were  asked  where  the  true  dreams  rise 

It  could  only  turn  to  familiar  skies, — 
For  the  dreams  that  hang  by  the  road  are  lies, 
Thin-weaved,  as  folly  and  foam 
But  though  I  might  envy  each  folded  lamb 
That  loves  its  shepherd,  and  loves  its  dam, 
In  the  thing  that  makes  me  the  thing  I  am, 
There  'd  be  no  home  for  Home. 

II 

When  the  stars  have  shone  on  my  chance-filled  cup, 

I  have  shrunk  to  think  where  I  next  might  sup, 

And  the  calmest  sky  has  shown,  hoarded  up, 

The  scourge  of  the  morrow's  rain  ! 

But  when  in  the  open  I  've  faced  the  gust, 

And  my  comrades  felled  me  and  snatched  my  crust, 

The  thing  that  rolled  in  the  blood-stained  dust, 

Has  felt  no  pain  in  pain. 

16 


Ill 

I  have  bound  my  sleeve  with  no  knightly  cord, 
I  can  judge  no  quarrel  and  wear  no  sword. 
In  the  kindly  shade  of  an  inn's  sign-board 
I  would  end,  full  oft,  day's  quest. 
But  while  one  blind  soul  to  the  darkness  reels, 
Or  one  wild  life,  caught  in  the  iron,  squeals, 
The  thing  that  bites  at  my  spirit's  heels 
Can  find  no  rest  in  rest. 

IV 

And  whate'er  it  is  that  my  true  will  knows 
It  will  know  it  still,  when  my  last  cock  crows, 
When  into  the  gulf  where  no  footing  shows 
My  path  drops,  straight  and  sheer. 
And  I  '11  hear  It  call,  by  the  darkened  brim, 
(As  I  hear  It  now,  when  the  road  looks  grim  !) 
"  Come  !     Into  the  feared  thing  !     Sink  or  swim  ! 
There  's  no  fear  left  in  Fear  !  " 


THE  PARADOX 


I  have  gained  the  Hill 

Where  beats  the  clear  and  rigid  light  of  God 
Full  on  the  path  by  fearless  comrades  trod ; 
When  I  have  tuned  to  theirs  my  will  and  word, 
And  by  my  prompting  voice  their  ranks  are  stirred 
To  hail  each  height  with  "  Higher !  Higher  still !  " 
That  luring  glow  which  from  the  Valley  streams 
Warns  me  /  am  not  what  my  spirit  seems. 

II 

But  when  my  life  descends 

Into  the  Hollow,  where  no  wild  thoughts  reach, 

And  all  that  lawful  yearning  can  beseech 

Sits  at  my  hearth,  or  in  my  garden  grows ; 

When  I  need  match  no  more  with  noble  foes, 

Nor  share  the  yoke  with  unrelenting  friends, 

That  strange  veiled  star  which  o'er  the  Hilltop  beams, 

Shows  me  7  am  not  what  my  body  dreams ! 

18 


THE  SONG  OF  A  FOOL 


I 

f  HAD  a  comrade  in  the  days  of  morning, 

High  through  his  youth  a  fatal  wisdom  shone. 
Still  to  each  task  he  'd  turn  with  easy  scorning, 
Know  all  too  soon,  and  weary  to  be  gone  ! 
But  I,  who  dream  from  truth  could  scarcely  sever, 
Slow  at  a  fact  and  laggard  at  a  rule 
Drank  new  delight  from  some  old  book  for  ever  — 
Thanks  be  to  God,  who  made  me  such  a  fool ! 

II 

I  walked  with  many  as  the  years  grew  riper, 
Who  weighed  each  joy  and  put  it  to  the  test. — 
They,  ere  they  danced,  must  call  a  skilful  piper, 
And,  ere  they  drank,  a  goblet  of  the  best ! 
But  I  whose  judgment  never  learnt  its  paces 
Found  every  country  brewing  sweet  and  cool, 
And  every  home-bred  muse,  beset  with  graces  — 
Thanks  be  to  God,  who  compensates  a  fool ! 


Ill 

And  now,  while  life  is  on  itself  returning, 
While  from  each  window  slowly  shifts  the  light, 
Loud  from  the  dais,  speak  the  men  of  learning 
Who  know  the  nature  of  the  coming  night. 
But  I  who  watch  the  door  where  daylight  narrows, 
And  irk  to  find  myself  so  late  in  school, 
Seek  truant  Hope  among  the  Churchyard  barrows  ! 
Thanks  be  to  God,  who  never  cured  the  fool ! 


20 


THANKSGIVING 


OOME  thank  Thee  that  they  ne'er  were  so  forsaken 

In  dust  of  death,  in  whirling  gulfs  of  shame, 
But  by  one  kindred  soul  their  part  was  taken, 
One  far-off  prayer  vibrated  with  their  name  ! 
I  thank  Thee  too  —  for  times  no  man  can  number, 
When  I  went  down  the  rayless  stairs  of  Hell, 
And  to  my  comrades,  at  their  feast  or  slumber, 
The  echoes  cried  :  "All 's  well  ! " 

II 

Some  thank  Thee  for  the  stern  and  splendid  vision 
Of  truth,  that  never  let  them  shrink  or  swerve  ! 
Till  on  their  dearest  dream  they  poured  derision, 
And  broke  the  idols  they  had  sworn  to  serve  ! 
I  thank  Thee  that,  for  me,  some  mystic  terror 
Still  haunts  the  accustomed  shrine,  the  accustomed  way,- 
So,  though  Truth  calls  me  with  the  mouth  of  error, 
I  need  not  disobey  ! 

21 


Ill 

Some  thank  Thee  for  the  Voice  that  sounds  unbidden 
Above  the  altar  of  their  sacrifice ; 
For  that  great  Light  wherein  they  stood  unchidden, 
And  watched,  reflected,  in  each  other's  eyes. 
I  too  —  for  whom  came  never  word  or  token, 
Whose  prayer  into  a  seeming  Void  descends, 
I  praise  Thee  for  the  trustful  hush  unbroken, 
The  right  of  perfect  friends  ! 


22 


AT  A  ROMAN  SPRING 


"Bibe,  lava,  et  face  !  " 

'  '  "T\RINK,  lave,  and  hold  thy  peace 

So  run  the  nymph's  decrees, 
Through  whose  cool  finger-tips 
The  flower  of  silence  slips, 
And  round  whose  marble  feet, 
The  flowers  of  silence  meet. 

41  Here  will  no  god  demand 

A  victim  at  thy  hand ; 

No  blood  to  stain  the  stream, 

No  flute  to  break  the  dream ; 

No  prayers  to  hum  like  bees, — 

Drink,  lave,  and  hold  thy  peace ! " 

Springs  of  that  empty  lore 
Can  quench  our  thirst  no  more. 
Who  learns  the  twilight  rede 
Day  proves  him  fool  indeed  !  .  .  . 

23 


Yet  need  we  too  despise 
The  grain  of  truth  in  lies? 

Drink,  lave,  and  hold  thy  peace  ! 

So  some  few  evils  cease  ! 

So,  if  by  lot  be  thine 

Life's  marrow  and  life's  wine 

The  "  Praise  God  ! "  in  thy  gate 

Will  taunt  no  neighbour's  fate. 

And,  if  't  is  thine  to  know 
Where  the  dark  rivers  flow, 
The  words  (that  ne'er  could  stay 
One  from  th'  untried  way  ! ) 
Shall  crown  no  outlived  pain 
Lord  of  thy  thoughts  again  ! 

And  though  the  market-cross 

Must  know  but  gain  and  loss, 

At  each  cool  halting-place 

May  lurk  the  thought  of  grace  .  . 

"Touch  but  the  springs  of  Earth, 

And  thou  art  sure  of  mirth  ! 

Drain  but  the  cup  to  lees, 

And  who  will  grudge  thee  peace  ? " 

24 


A  LITANY 


I 

thou  at  morn  before  I  fight 
To  cast  a  glamour  on  my  sight, 
Until  I  think  the  odds  but  light 

Though  men  with  gods  must  cope ! 
But  when  I  wait  at  set  of  sun 
The  news  that  tarries  —  "  Lost  or  Won  ?  —  " 
By  all  the  pangs  I  did  not  shun, 
Deliver  me  from  hope  ! 

II 

If  fealty  with  my  tribe  I  break, 
Their  scourge  let  me  unshrinking  take, 
And  from  the  cup  they  give  me,  make 

Libation  to  their  law  ! 
But  when  they  say  my  outworn  lust 
Must  wed  my  forehead  to  the  dust 
Or  bar  my  soul  from  further  trust, 

Deliver  me  from  awe  ! 


Ill 

If  vice  has  marred  my  neighbour's  fate, 
May  I  deride  his  word  "too  late  !" 
And  —  to  my  last  sheaf !  —  re-create 

His  locust-eaten  years ! 
But  when  vice,  wild  with  sudden  loss, 
Its  alms  in  every  lap  would  toss, 
Or  clamour,  dying,  from  its  cross, 

Deliver  me  from  tears  ! 

IV 

If  chance  should  to  my  workshop  send 

A  certain  silent  fleshless  friend 

Then,  while  day  lasts,  Thy  legions  lend, 

And  hold  him  from  the  stair ! 
But  when  the  best  tool  slips  away, 
And  he  must  idle  who  would  stay  — 
If  once  against  the  Dark  I  'd  pray, 

Deliver  me  from  prayer ! 


26 


THE  HOUSE  OF  PEACE 

A   PARABLE 


I 

shall  lodge  with  us  to-night,  in  our 
House  of  Peace  ! 
We  were  building  it  many  years,  but  it  stands 

at  last, 

Above  the  highest  ridge  of  the  pasture-leas, 
Above  the  turn  of  the  road,  where  the  thorn 

fruits  fast, 
And  the  spinney  leans  from  the  hill  to  receive 

the  blast. 
Close  Wishing-Gate,  nor  wait  by  the  Trysting 

Trees, 
And  you  shall  climb,  in  time,  to  the  House  of 

Peace  ! 

II 

You  shall  hear  the  echoes  sing,  in  the  House 
of  Peace, 

27 


A  song  from  room  to  room,  and  from  stair  to 
stair! 

And  the  smallest  shadow  hums  like  a  hive  of 
bees, 

And  the  ringing  dream  with  the  quietest  sleep 
must  pair, 

And  the  morning  laughs  all  night  from  its 
scarce-hid  lair, 

And  the  silence  lifts  and  drifts  into  harmo 
nies  .... 

We  have  sown  the  ground  with  sound,  in  the 
House  of  Peace ! 


Ill 


You  shall  find  the  sword,  unsheathed,  in  the 

House  of  Peace, 
Like   a  warrior's   far-off  chant   is    the    ingle's 

croon ! 
In  the  panelled  chamber,  built  for  the  hours 

of  ease, 
We  have  won  our  score  of  fields,  between  eve 

and  noon  ! 
('T  is  the   weakling's   pastime    here,    and    the 

idler's  boon  !) 

28 


And  our  silk  knights  long,  and  throng  from  the 

hanging  frieze  .  .  . 
We   have  chased  war's  night  to  light  in  the 

House  of  Peace. 

IV 

You   shall   see  the  great  wheels  turn,  in  the 

House  of  Peace, — 
Aye  !  turn  for  evermore,  though  the  stars  stood 

still ! 
'Tis  a  Tide  that  bears  life's  shell  to  the  endless 

seas, 
And   a  Work  that  knows  no  check  but  the 

worker's  will. 
Then  we  cast  our  sheaves,  content,  to  death's 

grinding-mill, 
And  the  freed  dust  yearns  and  turns  to  a  new 

increase, 
And   the  new  tasks  flower  each  hour,  in  the 

House  of  Peace  ! 


Yet  there  's  still  one  thing  forbid  in  our  House 
of  Peace, 

29 


Where  grief  and  pain  and   shame   have  been 

tales  to  tell, 
And    strife    and    wrath    and    toil    have    made 

melodies  !  .  .  . 
Would  you  know  what  word  we  shun,  for  its 

darker  spell? 
You  must  shun  it  too,  with  us,  if  with  us  you 

dwell  ! 
Aye  !     Until  the  last  die  's  cast,  and  the  last 

fears  cease, 
You  must  seek  release  from  peace,  in  the  House 

of  Peace  ! 


THE  LAST  TEST 


"  If  I  could  put  Eternal  Power  and  Purity  to  a 
last  test,  I  should  ask  It  to  incorporate  ruin  and 
uncleanness  into  Itself,  and  to  make  nothing  of 
them." 

|^\EATH,  to  Hell's  Master  spoke,  not  long  ago  :  — 
"  Well,  let  us  part,  since  you  will  have  it  so ! 
And  I  will  leave  the  house  where  I  was  born, 
Nor  taunt  you  with  a  fellowship  foresworn, — 
Yet,  ere  I  pack,  grant  me  my  fault  to  know?" 
And  Satan,  from  the  ingle,  answered  low 
(While  the  hearth  fires  reflected  in  his  eyes 
The  little  low  long  flame  that  never  dies)  — 
"  Why,  since  I  take  the  field  no  more  on  earth, 
'T  were  cruel  to  hold  you  here,  — of  unlike  birth, 
Now,  in  old  age,  your  pleasures  are  not  mine  ! 
I  with  my  Heaven-bred  kin  would  drink  the  wine 
That  cannot  hearten  you,  and  with  them  speak 
Of  deeds  that  bring  no  colour  to  your  cheek  — 
Done  in  a  far-off  unregretted  home, 
Ere  you  were  born,  where  you  could  never  come  !  .  , 


Friend  !     Find  some  kindlier  comrades,  ere  too  late  !  " 

So  Death  went  out,  unheeded,  from  Hell's  gate, 

Leaving  the  Deathless  to  their  deathless  dreams. 

Not  far  he  journeyed,  ere  he  caught  the  beams 

From  the  World's  sun ;  then,  in  the  World's  wide  street 

(Where  the  glad  tools,  like  living  music  beat), 

He  tells  the  chance  that  brings  him  fugitive, 

And  prays,  for  kindred's  sake,  with  kin  to  live. 

"The  thirst  for  babble  grows  upon  the  old, 

And  I  have  still  some  secrets  left  untold, 

Some  lore  of  darkness,  well  for  man  to  know, 

As  long  as  man  must  into  darkness  go  — " 

Soft  rose  the  laugh  :  —  "And  would  you  choose  to  tell 

Such  lore  to  us,  who  know  you  now  so  well 

We  know  you  to  be  —  nothing  ?     Our  church-walls 

May  keep  your  picture,  and  your  shadow  falls 

On  each  man  once  ;  but  for  yourself,  good  friend, 

Our  awe  of  nothingness  is  at  an  end  ! 

Have  you  not  heard  ?  —  Go  hear,  at  Heaven's  gate, 

How  Heaven  itself  is  stripped  of  idle  state  ! 

Our  conquering  Race  its  hoarded  years  may  spend, 

And  even  its  thunders  to  our  tribute  bend  ! 

Darkness  ?  —  Your  darkness  cannot  bless  nor  ban, — 

The  quiet  unwept  for  bourne  of  every  man, 

While  God,  with  endless  morrows,  feeds  the  Race!  " 


Death,  from  the  Race  Undying,  turned  his  face 

Towards  humbled  Heaven.    'T  was  scarce  six  steps  from  time 

And  space  ;  for,  now,  no  stair  was  left  to  climb, 

No  gulf;  but  only  darkness  every  side 

(Patterned  with  th'  countless  suns,  and  faintly  pied) 

Stooped,  like  a  curtain  any  touch  might  draw. 

And  yet  the  memory  of  an  ancient  awe 

Upon  that  silent  threshold  made  him  stand, 

Veiling  his  forehead  with  a  hollowed  hand. 

"Thou,  on  the  skirts  of  Thine  Eternity, 
Seest  that  which  man  has  grown  too  wise  to  see  ! 
Thou  know'st  what  he  denies  —  my  vain  regret, 
My  memory  for  what  the  pure  forget.  .  .  . 
And,  in  my  darkness  hid,  the  eternal  flame 
That  never  yet  has  screened  or  pitied  shame  ! 

"The  dreams  I  bring  about  the  sick  man's  bed, 

Long  ere  the  word  of  his  release  be  said, 

The  foolish  thoughts  I  send,  like  dung-hill  flies, 

To  foul  his  feast  of  noble  memories, 

The  blind  remorse  that  through  his  being  creeps, 

Vile  in  itself  as  any  deed  it  weeps, — 

If  these,  in  truth,  be  lies,  they  make  a  lie 

To  which  the  Truth  itself  has  no  reply, — 

33 


The  Hell-born  part  of  Death  no  boast  can  cure, 
And  neither  faith  nor  science  will  make  pure  ! 
Here  let  me  wait  with  Thee  —  Thou  too  art  cast 
From  man's  new  world  !  —  to  wreck  him  at  the  last, 
And  gather  curses  on  his  pride  to  wreak  !  —  " 

The  curtain  trembled,  as  if  hands  grown  weak 

Crushed  strength  itself  to  weakness.     Shrill  and  clear 

The  harps  (like  visions  of  a  fasting  seer 

Whose  soul  goes  lighter  for  the  lack  of  bread  ! ) 

Began  to  rend  the  air,  while  Heaven  spread 

Her  splendours,  like  a  twilight.    Death  saw  all, — 

The  gaps  of  ruin  in  the  feasting-hall, 

The  aureoled  faces,  with  their  look  of  care, 

Even  as  the  guards  in  leaguered  cities  wear  — 

Then  from  the  midst  of  such  a  gloom,  as  cast 

On  conquering  man  would  show  him  hope  was  past, 

(Or  as  the  Unconquered  Strength  might  weave  at  choice  !) 

A  still  small  spent  imperishable  Voice  :  — 

"  Enter  !  "  It  said.     "And  wreak  them  —  on  My  breast !  " 


So  sank  man's  last  foe,  harmless,  into  rest. 


34 


LATER   POEMS 


A  DREAMER'S  EPITAPH 


HPHE  Light  that  lit  the  sunless  hill, 

And  shone  above  the  barren  leas, 
The  Life  that  moved  when  leaves  were  still, 

And  quickened  in  the  dying  trees ; 
The  Power  that  with  my  weakness  grew 

(Mature  in  my  unripened  youth  !) 
Could  still  the  disproved  hope  renew, 

And  turn  to  naught  the  foolish  truth  : 


The  Spirit  that  so  loved  my  dust 

That  with  the  dust  it  feud  could  wage, 
And  all  the  alien  glory  thrust 

Upon  me  as  a  heritage ; 
The  Strength  which  with  my  frailties  wed, 

And  for  my  cause  so  strangely  schemed, 
That  I,  whom  it  had  made  and  led, 

Its  maker  and  its  leader  seemed  : 

37 


The  days  when  in  each  cup  of  shame 

I  saw  the  gleam  of  hallowed  wine, 
Nor  feared  the  beast,  nor  felt  the  flame, 

Because  my  Comrade  was  Divine  — 
These  things  are  my  eternal  store, 

Eternal  is  my  joy  for  them, 
Though  He  should  show  His  face  no  more, 

And  draw  from  me  His  garment-hem  ! 


THE  EVE  OF  SAINT  GUILLOTINE 

THE   CONCIERGERIE,    A.D.    1793 


MONSIEUR  THE    MARQUIS    MAKES    HIS   WILL 


iy/fY  soul  to  God! 

If  He  can  get  it,  if  He  care  to  thrust 
His  hand  so  far  into  the  mire  and  dust. 
Yet,  aught  that  took  so  readily  the  hue 
Of  any  sin  might  take  His  colours  too  ! 
Let  Him  but  try  its  paces  with  the  Blest. 
When  it  a  little  while  that  path  has  trod 
'T  is  odds  if  He  will  know  it  from  the  rest ! 

II 

My  goods  I  plight 

To  those  I  wronged  !     And  now  it  counts  for  good 
That  some  of  them  will  spurn  the  price  of  blood, 
And  some  already  for  that  price  are  sold. 
For  though  my  poorest  manor  found  me  gold ; 

39 


Though  I  lacked  naught,  where  other  men  lacked  bread ; 
Yet,  if  half  stretch  the  hand  that  have  the  right, 
'T  were  rash  to  promise  them  a  sou  a  head  ! 


Ill 


Tell  her  I  loved 

That  what  she  lost  among  my  wealth  should  be, 
Or  —  what  will  blot  such  loss  from  memory  ! 
No  kinder  word  ?     None  true  !     And  yet  —  and  yet 
Say  I  repented  that  we  ever  met. 
And  there  's  her  warrant  —  if  she  will  —  to  weep, 
As  much  as  though  a  loveless  soul  were  moved 
To  love,  and  tears  could  give  it  better  sleep  ! 


IV 


In  earth  I  claim 

Earth's  lot !     So  when  the  clover  o'er  my  head 
Bows,  laughing,  to  the  scythe,  \  will  serve  instead 
Of  memory  —  of  what  matters  not!  ...  And  prayers? 
Oh,  bring  all  fashions,  new  and  old-time  airs  ! 
And  all  shall  prove,  and  disprove,  equally 
The  Faith  I  die  in.     Nay,  I  do  not  name 
The  Faith  I  die  in,  lest  it  die  with  me  ! 

40 


Here  make  an  end  ! 

The  rest  is  naught,  even  in  the  devil's  eyes. 
A  taint  of  truth  that  never  hindered  lies, 
An  idle  shame  for  shame  ...  I  keep  those  still  ? 
But,  could  I  give  them  —  like  this  ring  !  — at  will, 
Like  this  dark  curl  (wherein  the  grey  's  begun  !) 
It  may  be,  I  should  pray  you  bear  them,  Friend, 
To  —  one  an  honest  peasant  calls  his  son  ! 


THE  GHOST'S  PATH 


,  where  the  pastures  glimmered  pale, 
By  dusk,  by  dawn,  she  came  to  me  ; 
When  blackthorn  whitened  down  the  gale, 
When  sultry  grasses  reached  the  knee  .... 
The  wealthy  yeoman's  only  child  ! 
The  wealthy  yeoman's  hireling  lad  ! 
And  both,  by  fasting  love  oeguiled, 
Could  pity  him,  for  all  he  had  ! 

II 

Love's  fast  is  bold  as  Love's  excess 

Its  further  sating  to  despise. — 

'T  was  youth,  with  passion  passionless 

That  looked  from  our  entranced  eyes  ! 

As  well  mark  bud  with  fruitage  fill, 

Or  summer  streamlet  rise  in  spate, 

As  that  Desire,  invisible, 

That  veiled  between  us,  whispered  "  Wait !  " 

42 


Ill 

When  first  she  died,  I  feared  to  take 

The  path  by  any  trysting  tree  ! 

Feared,  for  the  dreams  that  burn  and  shake, 

And  Memory's  ambush,  laid  for  me. 

And  then,  it  made  my  pain  complete 

That  through  her  haunts  no  ghost  would  stir, 

That  where  I  most  had  tracked  her  feet 

I  least  could  wake  the  thought  of  her. 


IV 


The  fields  beneath  the  reaper  fell, 

The  plough  ground  down  the  dying  leaf, 

And  grief  was  still  intolerable 

For  lack  of  the  keen  edge  of  grief  .... 

I  know  not  how,  nor  marked  the  time 

Of  change  ....  A  neighbouring  hill  I  trod, 

And  struck  a  path  that  seemed  to  climb 

For  nothing,  but  the  moon  and  God. 


A  path  that  had  not  known  our  track, 
That  held  no  snares  for  memory, 

43 


Nor  any  voice  to  summon  back 

A  pure,  yet  flesh-bound,  ecstasy  !  .  .  . 

None  take  with  me  the  road  unknown, 

No  earthly  comrade  seeks  my  side. — 

And  yet,  I  never  walk  alone 

When  I  walk  there,  at  eventide. 


44 


THE  LIEGEMAN 


^I^HEY  talked  together,  at  their  feasting  board  — 

Men  who  had  lived  for  Truth,  and  loved  Her  name, 

And  now  no  wage  at  eventide  would  claim, 
Because  that  service  is  its  own  reward. 

And  some  had  owned  Her,  in  the  fires  of  shame, 
Some  at  Her  feet  had  cast  their  golden  hoard, 

And  some,  self-stripped  of  fortune,  friend,  and  fame, 
Had  burned,  for  Her,  the  gods  that  they  adored. 

Then  unto  one,  long  silent  in  his  place : 
u  Speak  out,  and  tell  us  of  thy  sacrifice, 
Thou,  whose  deep  hate  of  falsehood  and  disguise 
Has  made  Truth  show  for  thee  a  special  grace." 
Slowly  he  raised  his  memory-furrowed  face  : 

"  I  scorned  Her  not  —  when  She  was  cloaked  in  lies  !  " 


45 


THE  LATE-COMER 


T  F  Love  and  I  had  met  at  early  morn, 

Amid  the  shadows  of  the  primrose-lane, 
Or,  when  broad  noon  was  on  the  harvest-wain, 
Trysted  and  kissed,  beside  the  ripened  corn, 
I  think  I  had  not  made  that  boon  my  bane, 
Nor,  for  my  love's  sake,  seen  myself  forsworn. 
Still,  with  youth's  dreams,  I  might  have  fed  my  brain, 
Still,  through  the  autumn-years,  my  burden  borne. 

Yet,  as  Love  finds  me  on  this  twilit  marge, 
I  own  the  wiser  choice  of  Destiny. 
'T  is  Love's  best  ends  shall  be  fulfilled  in  me. 
It  shall  the  narrowing  world  of  Age  enlarge, 
Stand  at  my  side  upon  the  dark-sailed  barge, 
And  tell  me  when  we  sight  Eternity. 


46 


THE  TOUCHSTONE 


A  S  I  go  up  life's  darkened  hill, 

And  through  its  merry  market  square, 
I  need  not  muse  on  coming  ill 

Or  foes  who  might  be  bribed  to  spare. 
In  doubt  at  the  divided  ways 

My  soul  and  I  have  never  stood  — 
We  fall  so  straight  on  evil  days, 

We  could  not  dread  them  if  we  would. 

II 

As  I  ride  by  the  treacherous  ford, 

And  o'er  the  demon-haunted  moor, 
I  care  not,  though  I  lack  my  sword  — 

Armed  or  unarmed,  my  fate  is  sure. 
Each  morn  I  keep  the  tryst  with  shame, 

Each  night  with  pain  and  loss  I  sup, 
And  still  the  arch  fear  calls  my  name, 

And  still  I  pledge  him  cup  for  cup. 

47 


Ill 


But  while  for  these  well-guided  feet 

Stars,  clear  and  unpropitious,  shine, 
I  steel  my  shrinking  heart  to  meet 

An  ordeal  that  may  yet  be  mine  .  .  . 
An  hour  of  which  I  nightly  dream, 

When  hope,  from  her  dread  lair,  will  wake, 
And  on  despair's  untroubled  stream 

Deliverance,  like  a  tempest,  break. 


THE  GRANDSON 


IGHT  year  old  !     How  the  time  be  goin' ! 
Well !     Time  do,  when  it  takes  a  start ! 
Proper  tall,  like  a  man,  you  'm  showin'  — 

You  be  man,  to  the  brain  and  heart ! 
Maids  enough  to  be  peart  and  pretty, 
Fules  enough  to  be  wise  and  witty, — 
Strength,  and  pluck  to  make  life  shape  fitty, 
That  'j  a  man-child's  part ! 

Chances  grow,  like  the  seed  grows  under 
Earth's  big  quilt,  i'  the  furrow's  lip ; 

Chances  blaze,  like  the  clouds  i'  thunder, — 
All  be  good,  i'  the  right  man's  grip  ! 

Life  don't  stop  much  for  sobs  and  shriekin', 

Life  don't  turn  for  the  path  you  'm  seekin' !  .  . 

Life  's  a  mule,  in  a  way  o'  speakin' ! 
Well !     Us  finds  the  whip  ! 

49 


Love  —  't  will  come,  like  a  cross  child's  cryin'  — 
Just  for  riddance,  you  catch  to  breast !  — 

Love,  they  say,  be  the  fire  undyin', — 
Well  !     It  be  !     But  it  takes  a  rest ! 

Ter'ble  strong,  i'  the  morning  's  ragin' ! 

Ter'ble  kind,  when  the  heart  be  agein' ! 

In  between  be  the  years  o'  'suagin'  ! 
Then  (for  men  ! )  work  's  best ! 

Work  your  will  —  within  rhyme  and  reason  ! 

Folks  'ull  prate  o'  God's  curbin'  rod ; 
Aye  !     They  'm  big  wi'  their  word  i'  season, 

Pointin'  paths  where  He  'd  have  'ee  plod  ! 
'Think  He  '11  want,  for  such  praise  to  swell  Un? 
'Think  He  '11  stand,  for  such  mice  to  bell  Un  ?  — 
More  like,  do  what  His  best  men  tell  Un  !  — 
Don't  you  fret  for  God  ! 

Work  's  His  thought,  while  He  keeps  'ee  wakin' ! 

Days  'ull  come,  when  the  light  bain't  clear. 
Some  o'  life  be  just  life's  leave-takin' !  .  .  . 

Darkish  ?     Yes  !     But  a  man  can  steer  ! 
Stand  up  quiet,  as  the  cup  gets  leery  ! 
Speak  out  once,  as  the  Thing  creeps  near  'ee  !  .  . 
Loud  —  Aye  !     Loud  for  the  Fear  to  hear  'ee  !  — 
"Men  bain't 'feared  o'  fear!" 

5° 


THE  PRICE 


I 

know  that  corner  of  the  wood, 
Where,  tall  and  thin,  the  larches  brood  ! 
Elder  and  salve  o'erlook  the  hedge, 
The  copse-wall  has  a  broken  ledge, 
And  yearly  there,  in  season,  trail 
The  ungathered  berries  of  the  dwale. 

II 

Had  I  the  power,  I  'd  fence  it  round, 
As  is  the  right  of  holy  ground  ! 
'T  was  there  I  knew  the  happiness 
By  which  all  other  lore  shows  less  ; 
There  met  the  mad  glad  ecstasies 
Whose  tumult  is  the  gate  of  peace  ! 

Ill 

Now,  oft  as  I  that  way  repass, 
I  trace  their  shadows  on  the  grass. 

51 


I  watch  an  outlived  passion  rise 
In  mine,  and  in  another's  eyes. 
I  raise  the  long-since  broken  cup, 
And  drink  the  stingless  memories  up. 

IV 

And  still  my  calmest  clearest  mood 
Comes,  to  that  corner  of  the  wood. 
'T  is  there  I  face  my  soul,  and  say :  — 
"We  should  have  learnt  —  no  other  way  ! 
Whoe'er  would  'scape  the  burning  mist 
Should,  once,  the  naked  fire  have  kist !  " 


Yet,  as  my  sturdy  children  grow, 
More  seldom  by  that  path  I  go. 
When  my  tall  sons  claim  happiness, 
I  shall  find  words,  to  praise  the  Less. 
While  one  road  else  is  theirs  to  plod, 
I  scarce  shall  point  the  road  I  trod. 


I  wish  some  flaming  angel  stood 
To  guard  that  corner  of  the  wood  ! 


THE  SEER 


'Churches  are  best  for  prayer  that  have  least  light.''' 


I 

O  ROTHER  ANDREAS  in  the  convent  dwelt, 
As  flesh  may  dwell  among  the  souls  set  free. 
For  there  the  stately  Prior  in  zeal  must  melt, 

The  dullest  novice  had  the  eyes  that  see. 
And,  when  the  choir  with  mystic  light  would  glow, 

Or,  near  as  touch,  the  blessed  forms  would  glide, — 
"Seest  thou  not  now?  "  his  neighbours  whispered  low; 

"  Pray  for  me  !     Pray  !  "  his  weary  voice  replied. 

II 

What  time  they  gathered  faggots  in  the  brake, 

He  guessed  what  visions  led  them  through  the  trees, 

And,  when  they  cast  their  nets  upon  the  lake, 
What  unseen  Presence  sent  them  to  their  knees. 

53 


"  Yet  grieve  not,  Brother,  for  thy  lack  of  grace  ! 

God  for  a  little  from  thee  hides  His  smile  ! " 
Andreas  answered,  with  averted  face  :  — 

"  I  know,  indeed,  't  is  but  a  little  while  !  " 

III 

So,  to  the  last,  they  held  him  deaf  and  blind, 

Whose  soul  was  sated  with  the  Mystic  Flame, 
Who  sought,  ere  death,  to  hide  among  his  kind 

The  Light  from  which  those  vagrant  shadows  came. 
God's  seer  must  claim  one  twilit  holiday 

That  faith  may  win  her  spurs  and  find  her  wings  ! 
Now  sleeps  his  clay  upon  the  kindred  clay ; 

And  all  the  Brethren  dream  of  common  things. 


54 


THE  TRIUMPH 


TN  the  years  that  are  almost  gone, 

In  the  life  that  the  gods  approve, 
Three  things  I  have  never  known : 
Anger,  and  Fear,  and  Love. 

Only,  in  storm-swept  space, 

1  have  seen  their  work  with  the  rest, 

The  sweat  on  a  lifted  face, 

The  wound  on  a  sinking  breast. 

And  still  as  I  measured  the  three, 
I  have  sworn  with  an  equal  mind, 
That  they  never  should  make  of  me 
The  sport  they  made  of  my  kind. 

But,  now  as  the  night  comes  near, 
And  each  man  dreams  at  his  door, 
And  Anger,  and  Love,  and  Fear, 
Are  things  he  will  meet  no  more, 

55 


I  could  wish  I  had  met  the  three, 
Betimes,  in  splendour  and  strife, 
To  have  mastered  them  quietly, 
And  drawn  them  into  my  life. 

For  as  long  as  the  years  go  by, 
And  the  shadows  pass  and  repass, 
Whoever  comes  where  I  lie, 
Will  find  their  track  in  the  grass ; 

And  the  sun  must  with  tears  be  wet, 
The  knees  of  the  Gods  bent  low, 
Before  a  soul  can  forget, 
The  truths  that  it  would  not  know ! 


EARTH'S  WEIRD 


I 

l^ORCED  on  herself  to  turn. 

Of  neither  dusk  nor  dawn  the  welcome  guest. 
And  likened  most  to  some  poor  funeral  urn 
'Neath  the  last  cypress,  by  the  highway  prest. 
One  cheek  towards  the  way,  where  hot  lights  burn ; 
One,  towards  the  cypress  and  th'  eternal  rest. 

II 

Bound  to  the  wheel  of  years. 
Slave  of  the  sun,  —  her  master's  mood  to  please 
Still  must  she  change  her  garb ;  now  gay,  now  tears,- 
A  sorry  jest,  and  played  for  sorry  fees  ! 
Wage  of  her  youth  —  a  seed-plot  full  of  fears. 
Prize  of  her  age  —  the  drift  of  dying  trees. 

Ill 

Yet  we  can  still  divine 
The  further  law  which  in  her  bearing  shows, 

57 


Which  girds  her,  as  a  pilgrim  for  a  shrine 
To  journey  through  the  stars  —  that  journey's  close 
Past  self,  past  sun.  .  .  .  What  guerdon  there  may  shine? 
Peace,  at  the  worst.     And  at  the  best  ?  .  .  .    Who  knows  ? 


THE  UNDYING  CHANCE 


ID  OUND  this  grey  inn  the  light  at  last  is  misting, 

The  evening  tide  begins  to  fringe  the  shore. 
'T  were  late  for  you  and  me  to  make  a  trysting 

Or  join  our  hands  once  more. 
As  strangers  we  should  meet  —  I  should  not  know  you, 

With  no  word  said  we  both  should  quit  the  spot, 
Yet  one  unerring  sign  to  me  would  show  you  — 
You  'd  be  what  I  am  not. 

II 

If  I,  by  chance,  should  speak  of  my  repenting 

My  hidden  yearnings,  or  my  secret  fears, 
Within  your  eyes  there  would  be  no  relenting, 

No  trace  of  ruth  or  tears. 
'T  is  so  I  'd  prove  your  truth  in  sterling  fashion 

Before  we  broke  the  bread  or  touched  the  wine. 
He  would  but  wear  your  guise  who  showed  compassion 
For  any  wail  of  mine. 

59 


Ill 

My  comrade  of  the  long-deserted  places, 

My  childhood's  soul  —  my  self  of  earlier  days, 
I  left  you  for  the  lands  that  fortune  graces, 

For  virtuous,  prosperous  ways. 
You  loved  the  things  that  bring  the  soul  disaster, 

You  sought  the  things  that  in  the  darkness  dwell, 
And  had  I  kept  you  for  my  friend  and  master 
I  'd  made  my  bed  in  Hell. 

IV 

So  there  could  be  with  us  no  thought  of  pardon, 

No  word  of  cheer,  or  soothing  amnesty. 
Sight  of  the  man  I  am  could  only  harden 

The  man  I  meant  to  be.  ... 
And  calm  auspicious  night  it  is  that 's  falling 

Round  this  last  inn  beside  the  shores  of  life, 
And  but  an  evil  dream  I  was  recalling, 
We  could  but  meet  for  strife. 


We  will  not  meet.  .  .  .  Yet,  could  you  come  unbidden, 

Borne  as  of  old  upon  a  tempest's  din, 
If  through  the  brooding  dusk,  where  storms  are  hidden, 
The  storm  —  and  you  —  could  win, 

60 


My  heart  might  read  the  omen  of  the  weather, 

My  will  take  arms  against  propitious  fate, 
And  we  with  mirth  and  song  set  out  together 
For  lands  less  fortunate. 


61 


REALITY 


I 

\\  7HEN  we,  the  old  wise  Deities 
*   *        Who  rule  by  Life's  Realities, 
Whose  fingers  crush  the  Golden  Keys 

And  bar  the  Ivory  Gate, 
Would  claim  a  child  from  cradle-head, 
To  Truth's  best,  sternest  service  bred, 
To  win  from  lies  the  long-misled 

And  break  the  spells  we  hate, 

II 

Think  you,  we  to  his  christening  bring 
The  gifts  whereof  our  vassals  sing, 
The  household  fire,  the  marriage  ring, 

That  gentler  fates  unfold  ? 
No !     In  his  hand  we  lay  the  dower 
Of  stranger  gods  —  a  primrose  flower, 
An  elfin-lamp,  a  glittering  shower 

Of  dead-leaf  faery  gold  ! 

62 


Ill 

And  through  youth's  tireless  nights  and  days 
We  doom  him  to  the  dreamer's  ways, 
To  seek  (as  men  seek  us)  the  praise 

Of  our  worst  enemies  ; 
By  starlit  hill  and  lamplit  town, 
We  bind  him  to  go  up  and  down, 
And  rail  against  the  fair  renown 

Of  Life's  Realities. 

IV 

And  when  we  've  led  him,  half  his  years, 
Far-seeing,  in  the  blinding  tears, 
And  fearless,  in  the  growing  fears 

The  long  rebellion  brings, 
In  one  quiet  hour,  we  grant  him  sight 
Of  us,  unveiled,  in  his  dream's  light.  .  .  . 
Did  aught  but  dreams  e'er  praise  aright 

The  Sacred  Common  Things  ? 


COUNSEL 


I 

HPHROUGH  the  wild  ways  chase  the  flying  Hope 

When  and  where  was  it  revealed  to  thee 
That  thou  ne'er  shouldst  cheat  thy  horoscope, 
Lead  her  home,  and  call  her  Certainty? 
But,  if  she  should  halt  at  eventide, 
Crying,  with  flushed  cheek  and  arms  out-thrown, — 
"  Here,  afar  from  all,  with  me  abide  ! " 
Answer  not,  but  turn  thee  home  alone. 

II 

Build  the  altar,  when  the  Cloud-Bow  gleams  ! 
Leave  upon  the  shore  the  outworn  ark, 
Sacrifice  the  shifting  drifting  dreams 
That  beguiled  thee  on  the  waters  dark. 
Yet  when  surer  paths  shall  lead  thee  on, 
Think  who  sent  thee  o'er  a  pathless  space, 
Think  how  like  a  dream  His  Token  shone  — 
Heaven's  will  is  not  always  commonplace. 

64 


Ill 

Voice  not  all  the  wisdom  of  thy  brain  ! 
Silence  may  with  knowledge  sometimes  grow. 
If  thou  seest  that  God  made  men  in  vain, 
Bite  thy  lip,  nor  haste  to  tell  them  so. 
Yet  when  thou  must  quit  a  long-filled  place 
Grudge  not  word,  to  him  that  follows  thee. 
He,  at  least,  should  read  upon  thy  face 
'T  was  not  vain  that  all  was  vanity. 


THE  EQUINOXES 


I 


as  light  grew,  my  eyes  saw  nothing  clear, 
Once,  to  day's  tasks,  my  strength  went  forth  in  vain. 
Strange  wandering  dreams  the  laggard  plough  would  steer, 
Strange  troubled  hopes  beset  the  primrose-lane. 
Those  seed-time  fears  but  stayed  to  play  their  part, 
That  mirage  wan,  dissolved,  and  left  me  free, 
When  the  sheathed  bud  spread  open  to  the  heart, 
When  mated  things  embraced  their  destiny. 

II 

Now,  as  light  sinks,  the  glamours  rise  once  more, 

O'er  the  reaped  lands  they  weave  their  silver  mist. 

Strange  voices  call,  as  from  a  ferry-shore, 

Strange  phantoms  lead,  as  to  a  gate  of  tryst. 

This  riddle,  too,  may  be  made  plain  to  me, 

This  sorry  jest  be,  by  my  judgment,  shriven, 

When  the  spent  leaf  no  longer  clogs  the  tree, 

When,  clear  through  bare  boughs,  shows  the  face  of  Heaven. 

66 


OMNIPOTENCE 


" Quand  me  me /" 

T  F  I  am  called  to  fill  the  spheres  of  action 

Foreseen  by  early  dreams  and  waiting  years, 
If  to  my  feet  I  bring  the  rebel  faction, 

With  vows,  and  prayers,  and  tears, 
I  will  adore  the  splendid  self-reliance, 

The  matchless  strength  of  that  great  Power  Divine, 
Who  to  the  ranks  of  Hell  can  send  defiance, 
By  such  a  hand  as  mine. 

And  if  my  life  climbs  on  to  death,  un-noted, 

If  deeds  grow  ripe  upon  an  unseen  tree, 
If,  in  the  acclaiming  chorus  thunder-throated, 

Not  one  note  rings  for  me, 
My  wondering  soul  shall  praise,  with  pipe  and  tabour, 

The  wealth  that  had  no  need  my  store  to  taste, 
The  Eternal  Power  Who  of  such  love  and  labour 
Creates  enough  to  waste. 


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